


Out

by yeaka



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Canon Slavery, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Seal Prince gets in the way of Esca’s soothing attempts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coyotl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotl/gifts).



> A/N: This isn't historically accurate. For coyotl’s “something that riffs off of that first time you see esca, when he's refusing to fight the guy, deciding to "take his death" instead, stnding with his chest pressed up against the man's blade, like "do it, fucker."” prompt.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Eagle or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Every time he comes near Marcus, he receives this hopeful, pained little look, like Marcus is unsure whether to be patient or murderous. He thinks he’s alone, Esca’s sure, thinks he’s been betrayed and abandoned, and it’s truer than Esca cares to think—Esca never gave him any consoling looks, gestures, waited too long to explain. When he finds Marcus brushing the horses near the edge of the village, Esca’s face is as steeled over as always. 

It’s necessary, of course. On some level, Marcus must know that. On another level, Marcus’ face is a mix of agony from the cold and being lost and being demoted from soldier to _slave_. Romans aren’t built to bow quite so easily; they’re more likely to break than bend. If Esca were better at this, he’d whisper quick reassurances wherever he could, but he can never think of how to phrase it fast enough. They’re always being watched. There’s no way to know who knows snatches of Latin. He comes to stand in front of Marcus and says, “Ready one.” Because if they take both, the warriors will grow suspicious. Marcus blinks at him, then looks back to the village.

Esca follows that look, and his heart sinks. The Seal Prince is walking down the slope, the wind snatching away his footsteps. He looks as serious as the rest of them and stalks forward just as surely, spear clutched in his hand and smeared with blood from the recent hunt. Esca stands his ground, staring straight ahead, aware that Marcus is watching him but giving no indication of what to do. These people are suspicious enough without the deep, soulful gazes Marcus is prone to. 

The Prince is asking, “What are you doing?” before he even reaches them. Esca can feel Marcus tensing at his side, unable to understand their language. The Prince’s words aren’t accusatory, but his posture’s always a threat. Esca stares him right back in the eyes.

“I need to have a moment with my slave.”

“You have that here.” The Princes gestures with his spear around them, his spotted, pelt cloak shifting lightly with the movement and the wind. Esca shakes his head and nods towards the forest across the plains. 

“I wish to be alone with him.” He makes his voice firm in the absence of an explanation, but the Seal Prince’s eyes narrow around the edges.

“Why? He’s unruly. You’re better off here where there are witnesses to his misbehaviour, men that can intervene and teach him his place.”

“He is mine; I can handle him.” Which isn’t entirely true, but he says it anyway, even watching the Prince’s mouth tighten. He knows he’s being too challenging, like Marcus always is, but that’s the way to be with warriors. He won’t get his way by asking. He waits for the Prince’s reply, but the Prince only looks down at his spear, twisting it casually in his blue-painted fingers. 

Then he tilts it forward and nudges the pale, carved tip against Esca’s chest. Slivers catch in the fabric, dragging forward; the Prince puts just enough pressure for it to dig into Esca’s skin beneath. When his chest rises against it with his breath, it stings but doesn’t cut, but he doesn’t wince and doesn’t retreat. He’s reminded for one sickly moment of the pit, of being told to fight for his life and being too battered to care. He offered his life to his challenger then; he gave himself to death. He doesn’t want to do that now. He has things to live for he never thought would matter. He can feel Marcus staring in his peripherals, tensed and ready to leap like he did the first time. It reminds Esca that his life is no longer his to give, and he forces himself through the haze of adrenaline to think—he doesn’t want to back down, he _needs_ to speak with Marcus—and finally he says, eyes shifting aside like he didn’t want to say it, “I have... _private_... business with my slave.” When he looks back at the Prince, it’s with a sharp determination that puts the insinuation all out between them. 

He’s still mildly surprised when the spear lowers. Suddenly, the Prince is smiling. A cruel, twisted smirk of a smile, but it’s not a danger; he’s swallowed it easily. He still asks, “And what is that, exactly?” Just having his eyes sweep over Marcus makes Esca feel cold. Esca looks at Marcus too, and finds him staring back, not even bothering with the Prince. His eyes are burning. He’s breathing heavy. Perhaps Marcus thought of the pit too, and it’s gotten to him. He went out of his way to save Esca, once. He shouldn’t mind it again. 

Esca’s arm is lifting half because of that and half of its own accord. He reaches for the back of Marcus’ head, twists his fingers in Marcus’ hair, and tugs Marcus forward. He can feel the Prince watching them, waiting on confirmation. Marcus licks his dry, pink lips, and Esca watches the wet trail of his tongue as the distance closes. Esca means to make him kneel again, to show that he knows his place. 

But Marcus has gotten the wrong idea, and before Esca’s pushed him down, Marcus is surging forward. He shoves his face into Esca’s so hard that their noses hit and Esca grunts, tilting to the side at the last second. Marcus’ lips slam into his, warm and surprisingly soft and something Esca’s wanted for a lot longer than he’d admit. The raw musk off Marcus’ skin rolls into Esca’s nose, the weight of his larger body towering into Esca’s smaller chest, Marcus’ lips bland and a little salty beneath his tongue. Esca doesn’t even realize he’s opened his mouth first until Marcus is following, plunging a tongue inside and sucking Esca’s in. Esca’s mouth is filled, Marcus’ tongue lapping over the roof and grazing his teeth and latching onto his. His eyes are already closed, and he thinks he can feel Marcus’ eyelashes on his cheek, like he can feel the slight scratch of the stubble on Marcus’ chin. For that moment, everything he is fills with _Marcus_ , his being honing in, and he forgets about the tribe and the imbalance in their status and even that stupid eagle he never cared about in the first place. Marcus kisses like a starving man, desperate and wild and more ferocious than he’s seemed in months. Esca could lose himself in this. 

But then Esca hears the small thunk of a spear’s end against a rock, and he disentangles his tongue from Marcus’ mouth. He pulls away, dragging a thin trail of saliva, and shares one short look with Marcus’ dilated, lust-clouded eyes. 

And he uses his grip on Marcus’ hair to push Marcus down, because they’re supposed to be a slave and master, not lovers. Marcus always turns him too soft. Marcus grunts but goes where he’s lead. His knees buckle and hit the ground surprisingly easy. A great Roman soldier, happily toppling for a wild Briton. Esca wipes at his chin and means to look at the Seal Prince, to say they’ve demonstrated enough, but Marcus seems to have other ideas. 

Marcus nuzzles his face into the front of Esca’s braccae, and whatever Esca was going to say dies in his throat. Marcus opens his mouth and presses that hot cavern over the growing bulge at Esca’s crotch, tongue wetting the fabric. Esca’s fingers tighten in Marcus’ hair, but he doesn’t pull Marcus away. Probably couldn’t if he wanted to. Marcus mouths at his cock through his clothes and spreads big, broad hands along his thighs, until Esca’s thrusting his hips forward, practically humping Marcus’ face. 

“Wait here,” the Seal Prince suddenly interjects, and Esca’s head snaps aside. “I’ll tell the others where we’re going, then I’ll come and watch.” The look on his face isn’t to be argued with, and he turns before Esca could anyway. He hops back up the hill at impressive speed, and it takes Esca one shameful second to snap to life and remember this is bigger than Marcus’ mouth on his cock. 

He jerks on Marcus’ hair again, and Marcus stumbles up to his feet, muttering in hushed Latin, “I guessed from the looks what you had to do.”

Esca nods his head and licks his lips—he can still taste _Marcus_ on them—and mumbles stiffly, “I’m sorry.” He never wanted to be the sort of man that uses a slave. His saving grace is that he can see that Marcus hardly minded, and Marcus went out on his own limb. 

Marcus shakes his head. He rushes, in a slew of whispers, “When he put that spear to you, it made me think of the first time I saw you, with a sword at your heart and you bravely offering your life, and I... I first realized how beautiful you were.” So Esca wasn’t the only one to see parallels. His cheeks feel hot, and Marcus is staring at him like Marcus always is, burning and hungry and adoring. Now he knows it. He thinks, through that mess of a kiss, Marcus must know he’s not alone. 

He doesn’t look hurt anymore, at the very least, so the day wasn’t for nothing. Before Esca can comment on Marcus’ own handsomeness, the Seal Prince is racing back towards them. They have no choice now but to go and perform. A part of him wonders if it would be worth it to fight off their audience, to have Marcus alone for different reasons than he originally thought, but when he looks at Marcus, he can tell Marcus doesn’t care who sees.

They wait for their third to reach them, and they head for the woods, wrapped in less lies than before.


End file.
